. grrrl .

kate, 18, is currently a junior journalism major at the university of the philippines, diliman.

she digs buffy the vampire slayer, pays homage to faith and eliza dushku, and drools over spike and james marsters' accent. she cried when tara died in "seeing red". she had desperately tried to dye her hair the exact colour of willow's hair for several times now, but miserably failed. every time.

when she's not abandoning everything else for the love of buffy, she also writes much, while listening to sarah mclachlan, tori amos, clair marlo, lisa loeb, lifehouse, the corrs, matchbox twenty, and evanescence.

she's single, and she (thinks) she's now tired of looking at the wrong places for the right person.

[she's crazy about webdesign, and she swears she'll marry the geniuses behind adobe photoshop and macromedia dreamweaver. check out her recommendations, as well as her other sites at linkage.]

a/n: something i wrote for poetry class... that isn't poetry.

Rusty gray overused lockers in the middle of the lounge on an ordinary lunch period. Me and my explanations, you and your closed ears. My stomach does that sick flip, as one by one my apologies drop to the floor, unnoticed.

"I'm sorry."

You and that look on your face I couldn't read. I stare harder at your hands, hanging by your side - but I feel them on my neck, and I breathe harder, laboured.

I could not believe you.

"I said, I'm sorry." My fingertips feel numb as blood rushes to fill them.

"It doesn't matter." You and your dismissive tone, and that wave of your hand, standing out of the mad commotion of people not quite knowing what to exactly do with their forty-five idle minutes.

I do not understand.

"I'm still sorry." Me and my apologies spilling out, forgotten amidst the voices, the faraway clatter of plates against forks and spoons.

You turning away. "It still doesn't matter."

Me and my stomach doing that sick flip all over again, my fingertips still numb.

I do not understand.

Maybe the rusty gray overused lockers would.